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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035126">Drakgo Oneshots</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammisue/pseuds/sammisue'>sammisue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Kim Possible (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:01:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,200</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammisue/pseuds/sammisue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshots and drabbles that don't have a particular place to go. All Drakgo (some AU).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dr. Drakken &amp; Shego (Kim Possible), Dr. Drakken/Shego (Kim Possible)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Great Blue Moon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>AN: a response to “Drakgo Prompt #2″ by @drakgoprompts</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It’s beautiful.”</p><p>The pale light caressed Sheila’s face, grazing its gentle thumbs across her cheeks. She smiled, happily, a glimmer of light reflected in the depths of her eyes that had told Drew otherwise. How often was she graced with the opportunity to bask beneath the moon with another? If Drew had to guess, he would say <em>not enough</em>.</p><p>This woman who laid beside him—the strong, independent, passionate woman that he had quickly grown to admire—was as lonely as him. Shocked, he was, to find out, but not everyone was gifted the best lot in life. He and Sheila scraped the bottom of the barrel for whatever scraps of happiness were left for them. At least he got to share the scraps with her.</p><p>His lips pressed together, forming a tight smirk. <em>At least he got to share with her</em>.</p><p>“Yeah,” he muttered as he pressed his back into the ground beneath him. The blades of grass tickled his neck, but he made no effort to adjust, “It is.”</p><p>“Drew. . .”</p><p>“Hmmm?”</p><p>“Do you…” a sharp intake of breath to sooth her beating heart. She tried again, “Do you think there’s more to life than this?”</p><p>Blades of grass scratched his pallid skin as his cheek rested on the soft earth; a look of confusion, mixed with sorrow and a hint of worry, seemed to be the single answer he could give.</p><p>“Like,” she copied his position, “there has to be more, right? The sun rises, the sun sets, the monotonous routine starts again at the crack of dawn.”</p><p>“And? What’s wrong with that?”</p><p>“I’m not <em>living</em>,” her brows furrowed, deepening the crease above the bridge of her nose.</p><p>She was right. She wasn’t living. Which meant <em>he </em>wasn’t living, either. They were two carbon entities floating along time with no meaning; without a purpose—only walking towards the inevitable, cold embrace of the Grim Reaper.</p><p>He forced a small sigh through his nose. She was right. She was always right.</p><p>Leave it to Sheila Goodwin to redefine Drew’s life.</p><p>“Well,” he swallowed the lump in his throat. How was he going to get out of this one? “I suppose that life has turned into a mundane routine,” that, he could agree with, “but, is that truly all you see?”</p><p>Her eyes met his; the moonlight shimmering in the wetness that she desperately held back.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He pondered for a moment, the dusty gears in his right-brain turning with a resurgence of motivation to battle the logical backlash from his left. There was more to life than this. There had to be. He just had to show her.</p><p>“Look at the sky. What do you see?”</p><p>She was displeased, “Drew, I don’t think—”</p><p>“Just tell me.”</p><p>With a heavy sigh, Sheila tore her gaze away from Drew and studied the black void that stood before her. Aside from a few stars that played hide-and-seek behind moving clouds, the moon was the one entity that stared back at her.</p><p>“The moon.”</p><p>“Not just <em>the moon</em>, Selene. A blue moon.”</p><p>A great blue moon.</p><p>“What’s the difference?”</p><p>He raised an eyebrow. No wonder she was oblivious to the natural wonders that came with life.</p><p>“<em>Blue Moon</em> refers to a rare event where a second full moon occurs within a singular, calendar month. Hence the term <em>once in a blue moon</em>.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“Will you let me finish?” He chuckled as he felt his head rub against dirt when he shook it. How impatient.</p><p>A half-hearted chuckle in response. “Sorry, Dr. Lipsky. Continue.”</p><p>He smiled. She’s insufferable.</p><p>“While this particular phenomenon is often used colloquially to symbolize a rare event, its light connects us to our spiritual being—the rhythm of life inside of us. A rhythm that you, yourself, had deemed to be <em>monotonous</em>, if I remember correctly.”</p><p>A snort. How cheesy.</p><p>“You were never meant to be a philosopher.”</p><p>“Maybe not. But,” another pause. Sheila wasn’t quite sure if it was to help collect his thoughts, or for dramatic effect. Either way, it kept her on the edge of her seat. She adored Drew’s attempt at insight, though she would never admit it. “to answer your question: I think there is more to life than… <em>this</em>. Whatever <em>this</em> may be. Because things, like the blue moon, exist.”</p><p>She turned to face him again and met his beaming irises—their crystal-like hue playfully dancing under the moonlight. Drew possessed a scattered mind, littered with outlandish theories that were tough to follow, but, for once, she understood.</p><p>“Sheila, if you look outside of your routine, you’ll see that there are rarities in life that are worth living for.”</p><p>The glimmer returned.</p><p>“Yeah,” her thumb grazed his, “there are.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Answers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>AN: this fic contains heavy angst and mention of blood.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pressure forcefully shoved her body down into a black abyss as a rope, tied to her ankle, aided in the shadow’s quest to turn her organic form into a melancholic dream by dragging her body into the forbidding world of nothing. Water coursed through her veins—spilling the blood that they once contained—and filled her mouth with its bitter-sweet flavor. She choked, the viscous liquid seeping into her lungs, yet she did not drown. She did not die. Instead, her limp body continued to fade into the nothingness—the black void—that had consumed the light that once shimmered upon her pallid cheeks; that illuminated her body in the deep sea.</p><p>Slowly, her aching arm rose towards the fading radiance—the warmth that her life had once possessed—hoping beyond hope that someone, <em>anyone</em>, would reach back; would save her from the ravenous, vacant vacuum that consumed her.</p><p>Through the thickness of the still water, a rugged hand stretched towards her own, curing its palm around her slender fingers, pulling her towards the surface of the crashing waves, where she could bask in the sun’s rays once more. But, soon, as her smile grew for her unknown savior, the rope had tightened its vice grip, tugging on her ankle, yanking her legs back towards the abyss while the hand continued to lure her towards the sun.</p><p>She was stuck, unable to move for her body stretched in opposing directions. It pulled at her muscles, broke her bones until one force overcame the other; until the rope around her ankle untied itself and slithered into the grand chasm below. Her body continued its ascent to the light where the face of a man greeted her with a sincere and loving smile. A smile she had recognized from the late nights she used to spend at the coffee table, or in the early mornings when she would roll over in bed to see <em>him</em>.</p><p>That face.</p><p>That man.</p><p>Her husband.</p><p><em>Drakken</em>?</p><p>Her heart pounded against her aching ribs, fighting to free itself from the confines of her body as her lungs struggled for air. She sat up, her joints cracking with the sudden movement, disoriented by the quick movement of her eyes, darting around the sterile room. The nightmare, it was. . . <em>horrific</em>. Horrific and. . . the more she thought about the dream that had abruptly pulled her from her deep slumber, the more it faded from her memory.</p><p>She shook her head, groaned, and wiped the sleep from her eyes with the back of her manicured hand. How long had she been out? She never remembered falling asleep in the first place.</p><p>And, where was she?</p><p>As she pulled her hands away from her eyelids, she carefully observed the objects that stood before her—a metal wall, a stack of surgical tools, and a white sheet draped over her lean calves.</p><p>This was not their bedroom.</p><p>But, in the midst of the foreign chamber, one voice collected her thoughts. A voice that solemnly called her name. A voice that broke with heartache.</p><p>The voice of the man that she had vowed to love for the rest of her life: Drew Lipsky.</p><p>She turned her head and spotted him next to the small bed that she rested upon—tear stains on the white sheets, snot on his sleeves.</p><p>How long had he been there? How long had he been crying? <em>Why</em> was he crying?</p><p>What happened?</p><p>She called his name. He didn’t answer. He continued to sob, desperately attempting to muffle his lamentations with the bedsheets that he balled within his fists. She called him again, but instead of lifting his head to meet her eyes, he buried his face further into his own lab coat—trapping carbon dioxide between his lips and his lap, suffocating himself.</p><p>The man who she once believed could carry the world on his shoulders shook unsteadily, demoralized and defeated. Broken.</p><p>Instinctively, she removed herself from the bed, pressing her toes against the smooth tile of the floor beneath her as Drakken slowly turned his body and pressed his back against the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. She slipped her figure next to his, curled her legs to her chest, and rested her head upon her knees as her gaze fell onto the tears that slowly rolled down his cheeks.</p><p>“Oh, Doc. . .”</p><p>He curled his body similar to her own in a desperate attempt to diminish his presence, protecting himself from whatever demons haunted him, nagged him, beat and tortured him enough to break him under their unrelenting spell. How could someone do that to her husband? Her buoyant, light-hearted, radiant, beautiful husband?</p><p>The longer she observed his behavior—his pleas for God to relieve him from this pain—the more her heart had shattered upon the tiled floor.</p><p>But even after she had explicitly asked what had weighed on his mind, he refused to explain away his tears. He wouldn’t talk to her at all. Not a word.</p><p>Strange. Drakken was never one to keep secrets from her. He was an open book—a thin paperback that encouraged her to turn its pages, to read every word stained in ink on its fragile folios. He once shared with her all of the thoughts that concocted within his mind, no concern too minuscule, no comment without value.</p><p>But, instead of burying his nose into her neck, letting the drool mixed with mucus and tears gather on the collar of her shirt, or wrapping his solid arms around her thin frame to engulf her in his warm embrace—or even so much as <em>turning</em> in her direction—he kept his gaze on the reflection of the overbearing lights that shone upon the pristine floor.</p><p>On anything that <em>wasn’t</em> her.</p><p>Why was he ignoring her? Did she do something wrong? Was it <em>her </em>fault that he was so upset?</p><p>She continued to stare at the disheveled man that sat beside her, mesmerized by the way his body shook with each sob that escaped his lips. All she wanted was to place her gentle hand on his arched back and rub light circles into his skin, or to pull his head closer to her chest so he could listen to her heartbeat—a steady rhythm that once soothed his chaotic mind.</p><p>The more his soul fractured from the strain of the agony that compressed it, the more hers tried to reach towards him. As his body shivered, she found her hand slowly, unsteadily, stretched towards his frame to wipe away the bitter tears that stained his flushed cheeks.</p><p>But before her fingers could graze his clammy skin, glistening with sweat, they recoiled briskly back to her side as the door before her groaned with use.</p><p>From the portal emerged a man. An unfamiliar man. A man whose downturned features forebode bad news. A look of sympathy and concern etched into his wrinkles around his mouth and his cloudy, sunken eyes.</p><p>He sighed, audibly, seizing Drakken’s full attention as his black shoes left scuff marks on the white tile. What was he doing here? What did he want from her husband?</p><p>“Mr. Lispsky, please stand.”</p><p>And he did. He followed this stranger’s every command yet he wouldn’t acknowledge her existence. Her. His loving wife. The one she had thought he <em>loved </em>with all of his heart.</p><p>Of the years that they had known each other, he had never been so distant. Why start now?</p><p>Following Drakken’s lead, she stood next to the hunched figure of her husband. Her hand, inches away from grazing his, rested by her side as she attempted to get a closer look at the stranger in blue scrubs.</p><p>“When should I schedule her funeral?”</p><p>She turned to Drakken. His voice quivered, broke under the strain that he forced upon it. A voice that, through the deafening resonance of his depressed moans, struggled to be heard.</p><p>Funeral? Was that what Drakken was so worked up about? Was that why he seemed so disheartened? So dejected and depressed?</p><p>Was that why she saw the light in his eyes—the light that once brought a sense of exuberance to her life—fade?</p><p>Who died?</p><p>“I’m sorry, Mr. Lipsky. We cannot bury her body until the case is either solved or closed.”</p><p>Case? What case?</p><p>She turned to Drakken, awaiting his response, but as each word left the man’s mouth, Drakken’s frown etched deeper into his lips as his body slightly slouched against the white sheets that she once laid under. As his eyes continued to water, she could see the mischievous glint that he possessed, that she loved so much, fade as the demons of despondency seized his heart.</p><p>She turned back to the man, slowly growing enraged by his presence. He was hurting Drakken with each careless word spewed from his tight lips. Her fists balled as a familiar heat rose within her fingertips, desperately trying to keep her own anger at bay for all she wanted to do in that moment was scream. Scream at him. Ask him why he was torturing her poor husband. Demand to leave them alone.</p><p>With a sigh, she decided against it.</p><p>“What do I do until then?” Drakken spoke. His voice cracked as it struggled to leap from his throat.</p><p>“Wait.”</p><p>Wait? Is that the best advice he had? Just. . . <em>wait</em>?</p><p>“And hope that the police can find the man who murdered your wife.”</p><p>Drakken’s breath hitched, the reflection of the blinding lights shifted in the salty tears that coated his bloodshot eyes. She turned to him, her mouth agape, searching for answers to the questions that ran rampant in the distressed look that bore deeper into the crevices of his wrinkles.</p><p>Questions, such as “how can I be dead if I’m standing right next to you?” or “whose dream is this, yours or mine?”, but there were no answers.</p><p>At least, not from Drakken.</p><p>Instead, he shifted his position to lean his torso against the bed. His eyes lowered; his gaze focused on a figure that laid before him while his hand rested upon what looked like the outline of a thigh beneath the sheets.</p><p>Drakken’s simple response was a gentle nod, followed by the attempt to hold back the lamentations that he so desperately wanted to release—to fill the room with his voice, and <em>only </em>his voice, as if opening his mouth to scream would release the overpowering tension that his own grief held on his heart.</p><p>His lips tightened, disappearing into his flesh as the tears that once glistened in his eyes spilled onto his calloused hands; the same hands that once spent hours typing away on a tiny keyboard, that once pulled the comforter closer to his side of the bed, that once combed her hair as she cried into his chest in moments of weakness—in a moment where he’d drop <em>everything</em> in order to protect her from her own inner demons.</p><p>The same hands that’s flesh was stained a faded red.</p><p>She followed that stain as it dragged along the sheets, grazing over blotches of crimson blood that bled through the sterilized white that laid upon the table, all the way until his trembling fingers cradled the cold, unmoving face of a woman that would once stare back at her in the vanity mirror.</p><p>She reached towards her—the figure on the slab—in disbelief as her mouth remained agape. Who was this imposter? That was not <em>her</em>. But before her thumb could come into contact with the pale skin, the vibrant green of her own washed away to reveal a grotesque pattern of blood and sweat that covered her stature, pooling around her chest, leisurely rolling off of her pale derma as is dissipated into the air before it could splatter upon the floor.</p><p>She turned to Drakken, at a loss for words. She looked to him for answers, just as she had for the past five years, but his gaze remained transfixed upon the still frame of the woman in front of him, eyes downturned, misery radiating off of him like an aura that she could feel within the depths of her soul. Instead, the answer she sought laid before her on the metal table, draped in a blood-stained sheet—the same sheet that she had tossed aside as she arose from her nightmare.</p><p>The woman was Shego.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. She's Always a Woman to Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>AN: this piece goes out to Jenna (writerchic16) because she brought up this beautiful song and it inspired me. Lyrics are from Billy Joel's She's Always a Woman.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shego never understood Drakken’s obsession with the Karaoke Bar. Every Friday night, like clockwork, she’d watch his hovercar effortlessly glide away from the lair and into the stillness of the night, eager to press the dirty mic against his lips.</p><p>Did they ever clean that thing? Shego grimaced. Something told her she didn’t want to know.</p><p>He’d always come home late, smelling like beer, though he never drank. She’d be in the kitchen, wrapped in the fabric of her nightgown, a cup of cocoa-moo in her hand as she patiently awaited his return. Though, when she’d hear the faint, familiar rumble of a returned hovercar in the depths of the lair, she’d pry herself out of her seat and take her pity party to her room. She never wanted Drakken to know that she couldn’t sleep without him.</p><p>The day he asked her to come with him, she nearly spat in his face. She always believed that she’d be caught dead at that hell-hole, but instead of unleashing her fury on him for asking such an <em>idiotic </em>question, she simply stated “no thanks”. Her brain told her no but her heart longed to join him. With each passing day, it became increasingly difficult to deny her heart the yearning that it longed for.</p><p>She sat at the clothed table. It wobbled beneath her elbow that was perched upon the grimy surface. A blue jacket, wrapped around her shoulders, comforted her as she watched the strange blue man—the man who she decided to dedicate her life to—boldly take his stance on the stage. Microphone between fingertips, his abrasive voice was like music to her ears as he sweetly sang the song that he had decided was <em>her </em>song from the moment he first saw it on the list all those years ago:</p><p><em>And she'll promise you more than the garden of Eden.</em><em></em><br/>Then she'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding.<br/>But she brings out the best and the worst you can be.</p><p>
  <em>Blame it all on yourself 'cause she's always a woman to me. . .</em>
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